Coming Home
by trufflemores
Summary: Post "Trial of The Flash." Barry comes home. Singh wants to help him readjust to this new life.


"Captain Singh."

"It's David, Barry. Can I come in?"

Barry frowns, leaning a shoulder against the doorjamb to Joe's home. "May I ask why?" he requests.

David can't respond, arrested by the sight of him in civilian clothes again – and how much leaner he looks in them, not just drowning in an oversized prison uniform but displaying hard weight loss. David knows he was losing ground steadily in prison. When he got the call one day that the kid had collapsed, he'd barked up a lot of trees to find out who wasn't feeding him enough. Felon or not, he refused to let blatant abuse slide, but Barry himself assured him that he was receiving the usual rations.

Except the usual rations weren't enough for The Flash.

And there was no inconspicuous way for David to fix it, not in jail before the conviction, or in prison after. He couldn't out Barry just to make him more comfortable. Not without Barry's go-ahead. But quietly, where no one else could overhear him, he worried that Barry might not survive on prison rations.

He did, somehow. But only just.

"Captain?" Barry rasps. He sounds painfully tired.

"I just want to talk," David replies carefully. He keeps his voice low, soothing, aware of the gravity of the situation. There are days when being a cop means being the law, but there are always humans involved, and sometimes being a cop means being there for people at the worst moment in their lives. Looking at Barry, he's powerfully reminded of that caution, given decades ago by his former captain. Even though the fire has been put out, the burns are still visible.

Barry shifts his weight to his opposite foot, looking uncomfortable. "I've been psychoanalyzed enough for one day," he admits softly, like he doesn't dare openly defy David. David misses the kid that would've shoved him hard in the chest, playful and overeager, because he'd figured something out. He isn't sure if that Barry even exists anymore, and it's certainly not standing in Joe's doorway.

But he tries again, because something in him needs to say it: "I know you've been through a lot." He doesn't say for how long. It's painful enough as it is. "I don't want to make anything harder for you. I just want to help."

Barry is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "Can we walk?"

David nods. It's brisk, almost unbearably cold to stand in, but he dressed for the weather, and Barry retreats for a coat and returns in short time. Over his shoulder, he calls, "Joe? I'm going out."

Joe appears around the corner, looking concerned. When he spots David, he nods once. "Okay, Bar," is all he says.

And so the police captain and The Flash take a walk in the snow.

. o .

"I honestly don't know how to talk to any of them."

Forty minutes into the walk, Barry breaks the silence. David walks steadily alongside him, crunching lightly through iced-over snow.

"They know – part of it," Barry explains evasively. "But they don't know – they don't get –" His voice cracks a little. David doesn't push him, waiting it out. "Prison is exhausting," he says at last, with a soft, pained laugh. "I don't know how my dad did it for fifteen years."

"He wasn't a superhero," David supplies. "His needs were being met."

Barry nods wearily but doesn't look at him. "How could they have been?" he carries on. "Maybe he wasn't starving, but he was – he _was_ starving. They let us hug for two minutes, once a week. Two minutes." He sobs, reaching up to press a fist to his mouth. David pauses beside him. He doesn't touch him, listening intently as Barry continues between gasping breaths, "All I could think about, when I was in there, was my dad, and how he – how that was his _life,_ for fifteen years." Tears trickle down his face, but he breathes in and out deeply, forcing himself to calm down. David doesn't know how many nights he did the same thing in prison; he doesn't want to.

"I ruined his life," Barry warbles, and starts sobbing in earnest.

David sighs, not unkindly, and pulls him into a hug that Barry latches onto with surprising ferocity, still gasping, more panicked than sad. "Hey, Barry, _Barry_ ," David says, patting his back a few times firmly. "Slow down. Focus on me. On this moment. Don't go back there."

He shakes against David, his hands cold to the touch. "Don't go back there," he repeats, hugging him properly. "You're not there anymore, okay?" He doesn't say _neither is your dad._ Because he knows where Henry is, has visited the headstone a few times, on cold, quiet days.

Barry sobs against him, like his heart is breaking, and maybe after everything it finally is. "I know you blame yourself," David says, holding onto him, "but you were a victim, Barry. Something terrible happened to you and your family, and it was not your fault. You were not responsible for that night." He pats Barry's back again, insisting, "It is not your fault."

Barry sniffs, breath hitching in his chest. "I should have died," he says, and David squeezes him hard, aching suddenly to take him somewhere safer, afraid for him in this coldness and darkness. He holds on as tightly as he dares, feeling all the boney, tired limbs underneath Barry's jacket. "The night my mother was murdered. Then – then none of this would have _happened_. The Reverse Flash would have won. He wouldn't have hurt my family."

The urge to get Barry somewhere safe burns even more in David's chest. He remembers seeing the glaring camera eyes and watching the accusations landing on Barry's shoulders, breaking them down until even innocence was not strong enough to stand, but he hadn't taken it seriously enough then – because he should have stopped it, somehow, should never have let it get this far, somehow, should have protected him, _somehow_. Barry was innocent. He'd known it from the minute he'd cuffed Barry, cuffed _The Flash_ , even if he hadn't been able to prove it then.

"Your death would have hurt your parents more than anything else," he says at last, finding his voice. "There is _nothing_ more precious to a parent than their child, and you, Barry…" He trails off helplessly, because he cannot say the words aloud: _you were more precious to them than anything_. Because it's a _were_ , now: Nora and Henry Allen are both dead.

Barry sniffs against his shoulder, shivering hard. "I – I could've saved them," he gasps. "I could've saved them."

David keeps rubbing his back through the jacket. "It's okay," he says, as Barry sobs wordlessly, clutching him so tightly it almost hurts. He's grateful for the pressure, the contact, the confirmation that Barry is still alive and hurt terribly but here.

Here, free, in this blistering winter night, with the very captain who took him away.

It's almost extraordinary, but Barry just holds onto him. His sobs die down again, his entire body shaking, and David can feel the bleeding fatigue sink into something deeper, almost softer: merciful, sleep-inducing exhaustion.

"Let's go home," David says quietly, and Barry nods, following his guidance mutely. "You're okay," he affirms, when Barry stumbles over an unseen curve, an arm reaching out to steady him. "You're okay."

He keeps saying it, _you're okay, you're okay, you're okay_ , because he thinks Barry just needs to hear it, over and over and over.

They're nearly at the house when Barry takes a step and takes a knee. David says, "Barry?" but he doesn't rise. Putting a hand on his shoulder, he kneels beside him. "Do you need help?"

Barry's face is ashen. He breathes shallowly through his mouth. Nodding once, he drops to both knees. David places a steadying hand on his shoulder, fishing out his phone with his free hand.

Joe is there inside a minute. "I'm sorry," Barry mumbles, as Joe get one arm over his shoulders and David the other. His feet drag, but he manages to put one foot in front of the other with their support on either side.

"I know," Joe says, bearing the bulk of Barry's weight, "but you have nothing to be sorry for, Barry."

"I'm sorry," he repeats weakly, struggling to put even one foot in front of the other.

It's only a block to Joe's home, but it takes a long time to get there. David lets Joe take the bulk of Barry's sagging weight, opening the door and stepping inside to smooth obstacles out of the way. West's daughter – Iris – is there. She frowns, biting her lip softly. Barry doesn't even look up, eyes closed, face still pale.

"Let's get you settled," Joe narrates, walking Barry over to the couch. Iris gets pillows behind him, and Barry exhales deeply.

David asks, "Can I help?"

Joe nods at the kitchen, prying Barry's shoes off with the care only a father can give. "We keep bars in the upper left cabinet next to the sink – grab three."

David obliges, returning with the three bars – unlabeled, each wrapped in a thin sheet of plastic. Without a word, Iris is draping a blanket over Barry. His eyes are closed, and he's still shaking. Even with a vague sense of urgency hanging over them, the whole affair is very quiet, very systematic. Iris says, "I'll get another blanket." She disappears.

Joe takes the bars from David and reaches up to rub Barry's shoulder. "Hey, Bar." Barry's eyes flicker open to slits, barely looking at Joe. "I know you're tired," he says, and tired doesn't seem to come close to describing the catatonic look he is giving Joe, "but you need to eat something."

"'m not hungry," he mumbles.

"You should listen to him, Barry," David suggests. Barry's gaze flits over to him, looking – surprised, uneasy, and somehow relieved all in one.

"You'll feel better," Joe adds.

Barry extends a hand, just out from under the blanket. Joe unwraps a bar and places it in his palm. Curling boney fingers around it, he brings it to his mouth, takes a single bite out of it, chewing slowly. He takes a second bite, and a third, steadily devouring the bar. By the time Joe has a fire crackling, Barry's face is more flushed, his whole body relaxing, rather than going limp.

Iris returns with a blanket warmed from the dryer and Barry exhales deeply when she wraps it around him. "Thank you," he tells her, and she cups his face, kissing the top of his head. "I love you."

It feels private, intensely private, and David says, "Feel better, Barry." He moves towards the door, knowing that he has resolved nothing, and perhaps even made things worse, but—

"David."

He turns. Barry is looking at him, the word heavy, a little strange on his tongue. His eyes are hooded. His voice is almost too soft to hear. "Thank you."

David crosses the room and extends a hand. Barry clasps it, holding on rather than shaking it. "I'm here for you," he says seriously, and sees something like ease pass across Barry's expression. "We'll help you."

Barry nods and lets his hand go. His eyelids slide shut. He exhales deeply.

Iris slides onto the couch next to him and he pillows his head on her leg. She tangles a hand in his hair. Joe takes a seat in a chair nearby. With the crackling fire, the ambience is calm.

David knows that this is the space Barry needs, the safe corner of the world he can retreat to. And letting David into it is accepting a degree of risk – that he will turn against Barry, and take this space away from him, too.

 _Never_ , he thinks, looking at Joe, at Iris, at the dozing Barry. "It will get better," he tells them all.

He lets himself out into the snow, away from Barry and his world, carrying the weight of it with him.

And maybe, just maybe, they can support it between them.


End file.
